


All My Friends Are Heathens, Take It Slow

by Blondtaire



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Childhood Friends, Dark, Drugs, Forced Prostitution, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Underage Relationship(s), M/M, Multi, Substance Abuse, Trans Enjolras, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-02
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-14 10:27:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29790534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blondtaire/pseuds/Blondtaire
Summary: Now, looking back at the photos, Grantaire saw only a seventeen-year old girl. Pale, scrawny, unsure of where to put her hands. It was frightening to behold the truth after so long, to see Enjolras without the mask of teenage angst and pining: a girl. Just a girl.A girl who had run away with one of her teachers a week before graduation, never to be seen again.---Darkfic. The Friends of the ABC were inseparable in school, but now they've parted ways. None of them are okay. Their group shattered just before high school graduation, when their mutual friend Enjolras suddenly disappeared with the social sciences teacher, Mr. Tholomyès. Six years later, Grantaire still isn't over the blonde seraph who gave him so much hope -- but when he finds Enjolras again, it's under circumstances more insane and dangerous than he could possibly have bargained for.
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables), Grantaire/Jean Prouvaire
Comments: 3
Kudos: 18





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This is just darkfic. That's the primary purpose of this. Eventually there will be some Comfort but first y'all are gonna have to bear with a whole lot of Hurt. I'm having a hard time tagging ships because uhhh a lot of the ships in here are not happy/functional ones, and there are also past ships I'm not sure whether or not to count.
> 
> This fic needs so many warnings, and I'm sorry if I miss anything. There are gangs, drugs of all sorts, alcohol, violence, abuse, agoraphobia, teacher/student power imbalances, ableism, unprocessed trauma, and just no one being okay or, like, an awesome person. Also there's some technical misgendering in this chapter, though it's due to a lack of information rather than malice. More warnings will be attached to subsequent chapters.
> 
> Also, I'm trying to listen to a different song as inspiration for each chapter. This is just the prologue, so the song is the same as the title/overarching song: Heathens by Twenty One Pilots.

Enjolras had been so beautiful. In the gallery of Grantaire’s phone, she was still a teenager, with her wild blonde hair pushed in a low bun and her braced mouth open in a too-wide smile for the camera. Smiling was never her forte; she had always preferred to use her mouth in the noble pursuit of lofty words and well-spoken ideals, not for ornamentation.

The metal strapped to Enjolras’s teeth only made her more radiant in person. Back in the day, Grantaire would have done anything for a taste of that stainless steel. Not even that -- he would have done anything for that steel to blind him with its wiry glint, to grind him into a meat offering for the hungry maw that encased that silver tongue. In his head, he imagined her as a beast of unfathomable beauty and coldness. In the photos, she looked so harmless. So awkward. It wasn’t right.

Her eyes, too, were lacking in the few captured moments that Grantaire had left of the young idealist. They should have been alight with fire, casting a meteor in Grantaire’s direction so as to flatten him on the ground. Those eyes have carried Grantaire to the moon and sent him hurtling into the dark corners of Heaven, staring at him omnipresently like the hundreds of eyes in a seraph had put all of their holy wrath into two blue spheres of light. At least, that was how they had always felt.

Now, looking back at the photos, Grantaire saw only a seventeen-year old girl. Pale, scrawny, unsure of where to put her hands. It was frightening to behold the truth after so long, to see Enjolras without the mask of teenage angst and pining: a girl. Just a girl.

A girl who had run away with one of her teachers a week before graduation, never to be seen again.

Grantaire wanted to smack himself. He was twenty-three, drinking in the back corner of the third bar he’d been in that night, and still searching for something in this girl he hadn’t seen for six years. He should have moved on. He had  _ tried _ to move on, which really only made him more pathetic; the number of pretty girls (and boys) he’d tried to win over, the ones he actually managed to get in bed with, none of them were enough. It didn’t help that, stumbling blindly in the dark with some new sexual acquaintance, trying to get to the finish line before he passed out from intoxication, it wasn’t rare for Grantaire to catch a fair halo and countless blue seraphim eyes in the corners of his vision, judging him, scorning him, crying out for help.

He had long stopped trying to sleep with people. It was just too embarrassing to wind up having a panic attack in a stranger’s arms night after night.

So tonight, Grantaire was alone. And he was feeling a little sentimental. Scrolling deep into the history of his phone gallery, he found photos not only of the fiery girl who was long gone, but of others friends as well. Ones who were technically still around here and there, though it had been ages since they’d all been in the same room together. In fact, Grantaire couldn’t remember the last time they had all gathered.

Wait no, that was a lie. Of course he remembered. But he couldn’t, not right now. He shoved his phone into his hoodie pocket and stood up from the table. All at once his head was pierced with stars, and he had to wait for his balance to catch up with him. If Mrs. H knew just how sloshed he was, she’d undoubtedly have him removed from her bar and sent straight home. And he wasn’t interested in getting harassed by his neighbors at the motel for stumbling into the parking lot at one in the morning.

He left the bar, letting the night’s chill bring him ever so slightly closer to sobriety. It wasn’t much, but he estimated that he could make it down to Prouvaire’s place and petition to stay the night. The homebound poet hadn’t properly received visitors in almost a year, but that was mostly because Grantaire didn’t count as a “proper visitor” -- he was one of the few people pathetic enough to melt Prouvaire’s social anxiety into pity.

Grantaire had only passed a couple of buildings when his shuffling feet kicked against something. To his shock, the something let out a grunt of pain, and he looked down.

There was someone on the floor beat to bits, with bruises all over their face and a left leg whose bend didn’t look quite right. The figure was hard to make out in the darkness, but it was clear that they were in a bad way. They looked up at him. “Grantaire?”

The voice was eerily familiar. Grantaire stammered. “Feuilly?!”

Feuilly had been a cute little redheaded boy who attended shop as a teacher’s assistant. He was a foster kid who never got adopted, but if that bothered him, he never showed it. He was creative, always striving to put more into the world than he took out of it. His friendship with Grantaire had been solidified by a collection of paper spinners finely decorated with thin markers, which Feuilly had taught him how to make on the playground in elementary.

Now Feuilly was a bloody pulp in desperate need of a shave and a shower. Grantaire wanted to hurl from the sudden recognition of his childhood friend in such a sorry state. He swallowed it back, feeling his second wind kick in along with a fuck-ton of adrenaline. “Shit man, what happened?”

“Parnasse,” Feuilly breathed. From the sound of his ragged inhales, the state of his ribs wasn’t fantastic, either. “Help me, please, R, fuck--”

“Yeah man. Of course,” Grantaire said hoarsely. He helped Feuilly up, wincing sympathetically at his friend’s groan as the ginger accidentally put weight on his bad leg. Grantaire put an arm around him, letting Feuilly lean as much as Grantaire could handle with his own shoddy sense of balance.

Getting Feuilly into an Uber was the easy part; the real trouble was figuring out where to take him. They couldn’t go to the hospital. Feuilly didn’t say it outright, but as soon as he mentioned who had done this to him, it was immediately understood. On the other hand, Grantaire certainly wasn’t going to drop Feuilly off at his place like this. That left Grantaire with two options, and he could only pray that the one he chose would follow through.

They were mostly silent on the ride there. Grantaire couldn’t come up with anything particularly insightful or comforting, Feuilly was physically having a hard time speaking, and neither of them wanted to make the Uber driver even more suspicious than he already was. It was bad enough they had to use one of the man’s towels to keep Feuilly’s bloody clothes from staining his backseat. The two old friends made eye contact only once, and in that moment they both knew all they needed to know about the other’s present circumstances.

They soon pulled up to a picket-fence house in the middle of a suburban neighborhood. Grantaire asked the driver to stay there and let Feuilly remain in the car until he was sure they would be invited into the house. The driver huffed, and Grantaire briefly noted that he was going to have to give this guy a  _ massive _ tip.

The first knock at the door didn’t bring any results. He tried another, and another, before he realized that there was a doorbell. Once he got his finger on the button, he couldn’t stop himself; ring after ring ran through the house, picking up speed until the door opened with an exasperated flourish.

There stood Musichetta, her arms crossed and her eyes narrow (from tiredness or suspicion, he couldn’t tell); behind her, a pajama-clad Joly looked on with amusement, gawking at Grantaire like a zoo exhibit.

Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta had all been best buds throughout school; they wouldn’t go anywhere without one another. Their friendship was punctuated by a friendly rivalry between Joly and Bossuet over Musichetta’s affections. Joly succeeded in taking Musichetta to prom, but it was Bossuet who got the final laugh when Musichetta accepted his marriage proposal. Still, there were no hard feelings between the three, and together with Grantaire they made for hours upon hours of witty banter and board game competitions.

Then Bossuet had gotten into his accident. It left him unable to work, much less finish law school. And now the three lived together, more or less on Joly’s dime from his work at the residency. However, their living situation wasn’t the only thing that changed after Bossuet’s accident. Something that Grantaire couldn’t pinpoint had become very wrong.

Musichetta, who would once have been the first to ask Grantaire what was wrong, now scowled. “The sign says no soliciting, hooch hound.”

Urgency over Feuilly’s condition lingered at the back of Grantaire’s mind, but he made an effort to play it casual. “Aw come on Chetta, is that any way to greet an old friend? It’s been months.”

“An old friend, no. This is how I greet a lush who’s come over here to crash on our couch in the middle of the night.”

Grantaire shook his head; it nearly sent him flying. He pointed back at the Uber. “You misunderstand. See, I’ve got a patient for Joly.”

Musichetta looked back at the young medical professional, who stepped forward into the doorway with his cane. “Take them to a hospital, R. I’m not gonna treat a stranger at my house.”

“Not a stranger. It’s Fee.”

Musichetta and Joly looked at one another. For a moment, they were inscrutable. Then, they laughed in their shared surprise. “You’ve finally gone mad,” said Joly.

“No, really! Fee’s in there and he’s hurt. Badly.”

Musichetta sighed. “Oh, we believe you, R. It’s just funny that you think we’d willingly house a gang member.”

“Fee’s not with the Patron Minette anymore. He’s been done with that stuff for years.”

“Well, the Patron Minette sure as hell isn’t done with him,” Musichetta retorted.

“Sorry, R,” said Joly. Grantaire somehow got the impression he wasn’t really sorry. “I don’t have time for a patient on my off-hours. Between residency and taking care of Boss, I’m booked.” He glanced at Musichetta. “Not to mention taking care of the lady of the house…”

Musichetta scoffed, though her smirk betrayed her. “Oh, stop.”

Grantaire gritted his teeth. He felt something boil just beneath his gums. He got out: “And where exactly is your  _ husband _ , Musichetta?”

“He’s upstairs,” said Musichetta, “babbling about some game of tic-tac-toe he’s playing against himself. And he’s losing.”

“I’d very much like to see him.”

Musichetta made an involuntary, incredulous noise. “He won’t have anything to say to you.”

“Maybe he’ll have something to say to  _ you _ . To knock the sense and decency back into both of your skulls.”

Joly shook his head in pity. “Look, R. I’m really sorry about your friend and all, but--”

“He’s your friend, too!” Grantaire couldn’t hold it back any longer. Any half-baked attempt to act cool had gone out the window. “Holy shit, did you already forget? We spent all of high school together! All of us did. We weren’t just friends, we were  _ The _ Friends! And now he’s bleeding in the back of that sorry asshole’s sedan --” thank gods the Uber driver couldn’t hear him from here “-- and you couldn’t care less because of stuff that happened years ago! Would you turn Enjolras away, too?”

At the mention of that name, Musichetta and Joly both softened. Grantaire took it as an opportunity to plead, and he reached for Musichetta’s hand. “Chetta, please? Don’t you remember how we all used to be?”

Musichetta calmly pulled her hand back with another sigh. “R, my first memory of you is that time you stuck gum in my hair.”

Grantaire’s face boiled again, this time with embarrassment. This shouldn’t be important, not now, but for some reason he had to defend himself. “That wasn’t my fault! Rel told this great joke, and it slipped out--”

“But see, that’s another reason not to trust you and your friend,” Musichetta cut in. “You’re still talking about Rel like he didn’t get his sorry self stuck in jail. Heck, you shouldn’t even be talking about  _ her _ .”

Joly nodded in agreement. “It’s been years, R. Please give it a rest.”

Then the door was in Grantaire’s face. His head spun out of control. It had been a while since he had come over to the JMB house, and he knew they had a strict sobriety policy, but he hadn’t expected a cold reception at such a dire time. He leaned against the door, one hand cradling his face while the other continually hit the doorbell. “Joly! Musichetta!” He cried out. “Bossuet! Bossuet, please!”

But no door opened to him. He had to get it together; Feuilly was still injured. He could process this later.

Back into the Uber he went, sliding defeatedly next to Feuilly. The ginger traced his face for any sign of expression; Grantaire couldn’t tell what sort of expression he was giving off. Grantaire reached into his clouded head and pulled out the back-up address, which the Uber driver reluctantly entered into his GPS.

A shadow cast itself heavily over Feuilly’s face, but Grantaire swear he looked even paler than before. Wherever his skin wasn’t bruised, it was as white as the canvas sheets Grantaire used to smuggle out of art class for him.

“R, it’s been…” Feuilly jolted back against the seat, biting his tongue as a sudden flow of pain momentarily widened his weary green eyes. “Ah, R…”

Grantaire wanted to reach out to Feuilly, to pat his shoulder or squeeze his hand, but he wasn’t sure there was any place he could touch him without causing further distress. He settled on offering a gentle murmur: “I know. We can talk later.”

The second place the Uber stopped at was worlds apart from the JMB house. They were in a trailer park, right outside of one of many perfect rectangles with wooden stairs leading up to the door. Even in the loose blur of his vision, Grantaire could see smoke rising from the other side of the structure, a reliable sign that at least one of the residents was awake.

He stuck his head out the window and roared: “Courf, get over here!”

Sure enough, a curly mess of hair appeared around the corner of the building, up on a pair of jaunty, twig-like legs wrapped up in skinny jeans. As the figure got closer, Grantaire breathed a sigh of relief at the familiar face, still childlike in spite of its scarred complexion and reddened eyes.

Courfeyrac was the life of the party in high school. His parents owned a huge house, so he hosted most of the events, and he always managed to make sure that every single person was having a good time. His fashion sense and grooming were impeccable, putting him at the forefront of every trend. He had once been the mediator of The Friends, the one who kept everyone together through pretty disagreements, but even he hadn’t been able to fix their shattered crew in the face of sudden tragedy.

Courfeyrac stuck his head into the window, and the driver balked at the smell of burnt plastic. “Hey, R,” Courfeyrac greeted. “How’s -- oh shit, Fee?”

Feuilly offered a limp attempt at a wave, his body rigid from both soreness and embarrassment.

“What happened to you, man?”

“The Patron Minette happened,” Grantaire blurted out.

The driver’s eyes widened. He shook his head, turning to the backseat. “Okay, that’s it. Y’all are tied up with gangs, you’re gonna have to get out of my car. Now.”

“Okay okay, geez.” Courfeyrac rolled his eyes. “Calm down man, they’re where they need to be.” He whispered to Grantaire: “Take him in, I’ll deal with this guy.”

Grantaire wasn’t sure what that was supposed to mean, but now was not the time for questions. As Courfeyrac reached into his oversized coat for a wad of cash and started counting out a tip, Grantaire helped Feuilly out of the car. The redhead’s ability to walk was merely token at this point, and combined with Grantaire’s sorry state, it took what felt like ages just to reach the start of the stairs.

Courfeyrac met them there, and with his assistance, they all managed to make it up to the porch and in through the front door. It opened with a creak that pierced Grantaire’s brain like the birth of Athena from Zeus’s throbbing skull.

The house itself was, thankfully, dimly lit and mostly quiet, aside from some low-volume dialogue with a laugh track courtesy of the television. On the couch sat Combeferre, his glasses slightly askew. He was studying, but at this time in the night his brain wasn’t comprehending any of it. When he looked up, his blank brown eyes flooded with concern.

Combeferre was best known throughout their old class for being a huge nerd and teacher’s pet. Behind the faculty’s backs, however, he was just as big of a troublemaker as the rest; he was just smarter about it. It was no wonder he became great friends with Courfeyrac and Enjolras, whose brash and blinding energies were tempered by his cunning reason. After high school, he had gone onto higher education in pursuit of medicine, making him one of the few members of the group who still saw Joly (though unlike back in the day, he no longer had good things to say about the fellow medical student).

“Ferre,” said Courfeyrac, “we’ve got a patient for ya.”

Combeferre swallowed. “Why did you bring him  _ here _ ?”

“Can’t take him to the hospital.” Grantaire shrugged without thinking, and Feuilly wavered at the change of balance.

Combeferre was silent and still for a long moment. Then, he started shaking his head. “No. No, I can’t do this. He can’t be here--”

“Please,” Grantaire begged. “Fuck, Combeferre. The man’s beaten half to death, Joly won’t take him…”

Courfeyrac smiled sweetly. How in the hell he could manage a smile right now was anyone’s guess. “Ferre, he’s an old friend. Remember that time he helped you build a replica volcano for the science fair? You were both so cute, holding onto that silver medal together. Ooh! I bet I have the picture…”

And so Courfeyrac managed to distract himself. He waltzed into his bedroom, leaving Grantaire once again as Feuilly’s only physical support.

Combeferre pinched the bridge of his nose. “He’s still living in the past.”

“We all are,” Grantaire mumbled. Combeferre shrugged -- a reluctant concession. “Help?”

After a moment, Combeferre got up from the couch and led Feuilly to it. He eased the ex-gang-member down, laid him on his back, and started to examine him without another word. Grantaire couldn’t help his audible sound of relief. Of course Combeferre, for all of his concerns about his own safety, wouldn’t turn down an old friend in need. Though it certainly helped that Courfeyrac was on board.

Grantaire made himself at home in a neighboring armchair. Now that Feuilly was in much more capable hands than his -- which wasn’t saying much -- he could feel the tense alertness in his body drain away, leaving only the feeling of static in his cheeks and hollowness in his chest. This was not exactly how he had planned to end his night out on the town, but then, shady situations like this never really surprised him anymore.

“Joly wouldn’t take him…” Grantaire echoed.

Combeferre didn’t remove his eyes from his impromptu patient. His voice was quiet, but tense. “Are you surprised?”

“Yes,” Grantaire replied incredulously. Then, after a beat: “No. I don’t know. Kind of? I just expected him to, like, care.”

“Perhaps.” That was Combeferre’s careful way of saying he disagreed with Grantaire’s assessment. “Things have been much different with him, since…”

“Since what?” Grantaire prodded, but the medical student merely shook his head. A spark in his head caught on to what wasn’t said, and his loose lips started to articulate the thought without Grantaire’s own knowledge. “Oh, you mean since Enj--”

Before Grantaire could finish putting his foot in his mouth, Courfeyrac returned to the living room. With him he had a medical bag, which he handed to Combeferre, and a school newsletter page, which he handed to Grantaire before planting himself on the cynic’s lap. The page was faded with age, and the once-bright colors now blended with the words of the article.

It was, as promised, from the fourth-grade science fair. The picture at the top was not that of Feuilly and Combeferre; that honor had been reserved for the fair’s gold-medal winner, something about disproving the advertised absorbency of Shamwows that was way too boring to deserve its winning spot.

But the little corner in the bottom left, grainy as it was, clearly depicted the two young friends in front of their two-foot-tall, painstakingly accurate scaled model of Mauna Loa. Grantaire remembered helping them find a way to carry it into the school through its narrow front doors; they’d dropped it in the process, leading to an obvious dent in the back that may very well have cost the duo first place. In the image, however, Feuilly and Combeferre didn’t look bothered one bit; they were proud of their silver medal, which they held onto together with one hand each. From his proud beam in the photo, one could faintly tell that Feuilly had recently lost a canine tooth.

“Oh my God.” Courfeyrac chuckled. “Oh my God, Ferre, this was the year before you started wearing glasses! I almost forgot there was a time like that; it’s so weird to see you without them now.”

This was a conversation Grantaire could contribute to, even in his haze. “And his long hair in those braids. You know, Sampson, I think that’s when you were at your most powerful.”

“We all feel powerful as children. It’s because we don’t know how trapped we really are,” Combeferre muttered under his breath, not really paying attention to his words. His concern was with the redhead beneath him, who involuntarily whimpered at every other touch, and nothing was going to distract him from that. “His ribs are wrecked. I obviously can’t take an x-ray, but I imagine he’s going to need surgery.”

Grantaire’s heart sank. This was even worse than he’d suspected, and he’d suspected it was pretty bad. “What? But he can’t go to--”

“To the hospital, I know. I have a friend who can help, but I’ll have to wait until the morning to call him.”

Grantaire nodded grimly. Seeing his pallor, Courfeyrac hopped off of Grantaire’s lap and stuck half of his body under the coffee table. After some rummaging, he emerged with a bong and a little pill bottle full of buds.

“In the meantime, all we can do is relax and wait it out,” said Courfeyrac. He filled the bong and offered it to Grantaire, who shook his head.

“Sorry, Courf. I promised Jean I was done with the hard stuff.”

“Mary Jane’s not hard,” Courfeyrac crooned. “She’s a soft, elegant lady. Everyone knows her. This is a special night, I’d say it’s about time you got reacquainted.”

Grantaire considered it for a moment. His body felt like it contained more alcohol than water, but he still hadn’t managed to achieve the brain-blasting knockout he’d been seeking. “...How much?”

“Nah man, this one’s on me. Always happy to sweeten things a little for a friend.” He glanced at Feuilly. “You ought to have some too, brother.”

Combeferre shook his head sternly. “Did you hear what I just said about his ribs? He’s not going to smoke anything.”

“Right, right…” Courfeyrac reached down into his stash again, pulling out another pill bottle. He slid it over to Combeferre. “Give him a hydro or two, then. The poor man’s gotta sleep somehow.”

Combeferre looked down at the bottle disapprovingly. “I stole these for you, Courfeyrac.”

“Which is why you and Feuilly don’t have to pay for them!” Courfeyrac reasoned. He pushed the bong into Grantaire’s hands, along with a cheap plastic lighter.

It couldn’t hurt, right? Grantaire’s head ached and his stomach turned; he could use some extra numbness. With a decisive flick of the lighter, he pressed the bong to his mouth and took his first hit of the night. Quietly, Courfeyrac cheered.

Grantaire couldn’t be sure how long he spent at Courfeyrac and Combeferre’s place. Combeferre bandaged Feuilly up about as well as he could while they waited on a surgeon, and the redhead passed out easily on the couch, no hydrocodone needed. Courfeyrac didn’t smoke with Grantaire only because he was already high on something else, as Grantaire had suspected. And Combeferre, as always, wouldn’t touch anything Courfeyrac’s line of work had to offer, though he was severely inflicted with a lack of sleep.

Despite their very different states, the three managed to get into the swing of a conversation. It was led primarily by Courfeyrac, so most of their discussion was a game of reliving old memories. Grantaire was great at embellishing the past, and Combeferre couldn’t help but compare their school days to the present circumstances.

“And how is Jehan?” Courfeyrac asked at some point. His hands ran through Grantaire’s thick, dark brown hair. It was due for a wash, but the hyped-up drug dealer either didn’t notice or didn’t care to comment on it.

The old nickname,  _ Jehan _ , stuck with Grantaire. Courfeyrac was the only one who still called him that; even Grantaire had been asked to stick to  _ Jean _ after graduation. “Still hasn’t left the house.”

“That’s a shame,” Courfeyrac sighed wistfully. “I miss seeing his gaudy sweaters at house parties. Ooh, we should have a house party here! With the old gang!”

“And let all of your old friends find out you run a drug den?” Combeferre pointed out.

Courfeyrac waved off the concern. “We can hide it.”

“We can hide the paraphernalia, maybe, but not the smell.”

“Doesn’t really matter,” said Grantaire. “Can’t hold a party with the old gang anyway. JMB wouldn’t give you the time of day, Jean’s still an agoraphobe, and Bahorel’s behind bars.”

Combeferre stared at the television, his eyes scanning the fuzzy screen without processing any of the images shown on it. His thoughts left his lips of their own accord. “Even if we got all nine of us together, it wouldn’t be the old gang. One person would still be missing.”

Grantaire merely responded with a solemn nod, but Courfeyrac looked like Combeferre had just hit him in the gut. The medical student immediately recognized his mistake. It was never a good idea to bring up Enjolras while Courfeyrac wasn’t sober.

Combeferre blinked, his tired eyes stretching wide. “Not that the nine of us couldn’t have a good time.”

But it was too late to recover the conversation. Courfeyrac was shaking, his hands fidgety and tight. “Fuck her,” he spat. “We don’t need her.”

“Courf,” Grantaire murmured, but Courfeyrac kept going.

“We don’t,” Courfeyrac reiterated. “We’re all better off without some...some two-faced bitch who thinks Mr. Tholomyès is hot enough to run off with! Right? Am I wrong about this?”

Combeferre didn’t say anything. He held steady, but Grantaire could see him curl slightly inward, his eyes gluing themselves to his shoes.

“R, am I wrong about this?”

Grantaire uneasily cleared his throat. The taste of his own bile sat heavy and unmoving. “Courfeyrac. She was seventeen. He was old enough to be her father. She was groomed.”

Combeferre winced involuntarily; if Grantaire was going to defend Enjolras, Courfeyrac would only get more riled up. His fears weren’t for nothing.

Courfeyrac shot out of his seat. “She was some rich kid with a gate in front of her house and two of the most influential members of the PTA for parents. She had a good fucking life ahead of her and she threw it away.” He stumbled over to Grantaire’s seat, leaning toward him with his palms pressed against the leather arms. “She threw  _ us _ away. Don’t forget that.”

Grantaire bit his lip, his tongue probing the newly mangled flesh. It was a bad idea to continue. A really, really bad idea. So of course, he couldn’t stop himself. “Courfeyrac. She cared about you so much. She cared endlessly about you, about all of you, and now you want to play the victim.”

Courfeyrac scoffed. His red eyes and snarling face reminded Grantaire of an ugly bulldog Bahorel used to own by the name of Princess. Except right now, with that wild look in his eye, he wasn’t half as pleasant as that sniveling, butt-scooting little monster. “You’re one to talk, R. She didn’t give a shit about you. Six years and you’re still simping for some blonde social justice warrior who wouldn’t give you the time of day. Pathetic.”

Grantaire felt his guts lurch. It was true that Enjolras never said much to him outside of their petty little games -- probably wouldn’t give him the time of day, if he’d ever built up the balls to ask. But she gave him so much more than that. She gave him something like hope, something that had vanished along with the final sway of her fair locks the last time she walked away from him in the middle of one of their many silly arguments. If he had known that’d be their last argument, he would have trolled harder, called her worse names, insulted her favorite historical figures more, anything to keep her in the room and angry at him. It wouldn’t have been a real solution, and it was certainly a selfish thought, but he wanted to go back and freeze that moment. To keep her godly wrath fixed on him until the end of time, choirs of angels blasting admonishments in his ears like the inescapable cries of the infant Erichthonius--

God, he was shit-faced. Mixing up his religious metaphors  _ and _ making ridiculous, self-absorbed wishes. Courfeyrac’s eyes were still trained on his, and he had to say something. But he couldn’t.

With the bitter satisfaction that comes from getting the last word, Courfeyrac pulled away and stomped off to his room.

Grantaire and Combeferre both stared for a long time, though not at one another. In fact, they preferred to look anywhere else. There was the violent sound of a door slamming shut, followed by strained sobs.

It could have been hours before Combeferre spoke, or mere seconds. His voice was so quiet that Grantaire could hardly make out the words. “You can stay the night.”

“I’d better not.”

“You’re sure? He’ll get over it once he’s sober.”

“Yeah, I need to get to Jean’s, anyway. He’s expecting me.” Grantaire stood up and over-aimed with his head, wobbling back and forth like a plucked string before managing to steady himself.

Combeferre’s brows furrowed. “I’m coming with you.”

Grantaire shook his head. “You gotta keep an eye on Fee. You know Courf can’t do it, not when he’s like this.”

Combeferre’s eyes lingered on the sleeping redhead. “...Let me at least arrange you a ride. I’ll pay for it.”

“You really don’t have to do that, Ferre.”

“Grantaire, you came in here drunk, and you’re coming out of here stoned. I’m getting you a ride.”

As tired as Combeferre was, he had the sense about him to make Grantaire sit down and drink a glass of water before the Uber arrived. It was an awkward few minutes, with all of the night’s wrongness punctuated by the faint sound of Courfeyrac’s distant cries. Grantaire gave the sleeping Feuilly a little farewell pat on the cheek before Combeferre guided him down the porch steps and to the car.

“Remember,” Combeferre said through the open side window, “don’t stop the car. Let the driver take you all the way to Prouvaire’s place.”

“Like I’d ever stop the car.”

“You’ve done it before. That’s why I’m reminding you.”

With that, the car took off. Grantaire slumped into his seat, closing his eyes. Then he opened them, determined not to fall asleep quite yet in spite of the visions of sugarplums dancing in the corners of his eyes. Poor Prouvaire was a generous soul who wouldn’t hesitate to answer the door for Grantaire at any hour, but he staunchly refused to go a step beyond the doorframe to retrieve him. Grantaire would have to stay awake until he got inside.

What hour was it, anyway? Looking out the window, it still appeared to be night-time, though that felt impossible. If he squinted at the far distance, Grantaire could see the first suggestions of where the sun would rise. If he squinted at the  _ short _ distance, on the other hand, he could vaguely make out the discreet buildings of the town’s seediest district, which was no doubt the fastest route between the trailer park and Prouvaire’s house.

Grantaire had met a lot of his favorite people on this street. And a lot of his least favorite people. It didn’t look too out-of-the-ordinary, with all the lights on the buildings turned off and alleys parting the walls, but this was Patron Minette territory, and they ruled the town’s shadiest dealings. As long as the Uber kept driving at its current pace, they wouldn’t be bothered. There wasn’t a single light on, not even a streetlight to signal that more than ghosts inhabited this little district.

Until there was a light. Soft and pale yellow, a halo rising into the air. It sat upon one of the benches, an untouchable paleness that glowed against the dark wood. Within the pale light shined two brilliant blue flames, which seemed to beckon Grantaire.

He realized, with a start, that it wasn’t really a light at all. It was a person sitting alone on a dark bench with no other living beings in sight. Grantaire blinked several times, reasoning with himself: it was just another of the many illusions he had seen of her over the past few years, just his mind playing cruel tricks on him. It liked to do that when he was inebriated and alone and in the dark.

Except this didn’t look like her other phantoms. She didn’t look seventeen anymore, though admittedly, she didn’t look much older, either. Her hair was shorter. Her face was sharper. She was just as skinny, but her shape had changed. In fact, she didn’t look much like a ‘she’ at all. But she definitely looked like Enjolras.

“Stop the car.”

The driver didn’t so much as look back at him. “Nope. Your friend wanted me to get you home safe.”

Grantaire rolled his eyes, unlocked the passenger door, and swung it open. The driver had to swerve out of the way of a pole to keep the door from getting damaged, and Grantaire couldn’t help a little smirk; he’d certainly gotten the driver’s attention. The driver slowed down for a moment in shock, and Grantaire took it as an opportunity to hop out of the vehicle.

Unfortunately, his ability to stand got even more fucked up by the sudden change in velocity, and he toppled onto the concrete. He didn’t damage anything -- well, he didn’t  _ think _ he damaged anything -- and got back up again, paying no mind to the tiny bits of rubble that stuck to his shirt. The angel on the bench watched him cautiously, but it wasn’t until Grantaire started to approach that their shoulders tensed.

He came up to a nearby street sign and leaned on it, getting a closer look at the figure. Sure enough, it was the same blonde hair, the same blue eyes, the same severe lips and lofty, disapproving brow...Grantaire couldn’t believe his eyes.

“Enjolras?”

The word was quiet and hoarse, but it thundered through the quiet night. The figure’s eyes widened, and Grantaire knew that they recognized the name. This had to be her. It wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be possible. She had disappeared years ago, and for all of their searching, the others hadn’t found a trace of her. She had to be gone for good. And yet, it had to be her sitting there, floating in the center Grantaire’s vision like a will o’ the wisp.

The figure stood up with a kind of grace Grantaire hadn’t borne witness to in years. They were slender underneath their oversized hoodie, finely crafted like a marble statue at the hands of some impossibly talented Renaissance artist. Yet the artist, Grantaire could see, was also harsh; the figure’s collarbones and cheeks jutted out, their lips were cracked, and their deep-set eyes appeared to have been open for ages. They looked Grantaire up and down with those widened eyes, and for the first time in years, Grantaire felt Heaven itself turn to look at him and deliver its judgement.

Then the figure ran.

And Grantaire, being the sucker for fate that he unfortunately happened to be underneath all the layers of cynicism and booze, ran after his will o’ the wisp.

The last thing he remembered before passing out was sprinting with a single-minded focus and an ache in his chest, every thought in his head compelled to run toward the fuzzy halo of blonde hair that served as his only light in the darkness.


	2. Townie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire wakes up at Jean's place. He finds a potential new lead regarding Enjolras's whereabouts, and it's horrifying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New warnings: a lot of implications of sexual activity (some of it consensual between adults, some of it consensual between teenagers, and some of it nonconsensual); transphobia (including slurs); mentions of forced prostitution. Also, more non-malicious misgendering.
> 
> The song I listened to while writing this chapter is "Townie" by Mitski.

“They’re in love. They just don’t know it yet.”

That was the common opinion of Enjolras and Grantaire. It had been that way since freshman year, when the former had moved away from the wealthy, conservative bubble of her hometown and into the shady, just-barely-less-conservative bubble of Grantaire’s. The Enjolras family had moved into town claiming that they wanted to bring their business there and improve the community. In truth, they just wanted to branch out someplace where the workers were already used to long hours and shit wages, all while sitting comfortably in the suburban sinkhole that now housed the likes of Joly.

Enjolras was aware of her family’s profit-driven motives, and she was absolutely livid about it. She was so passionate about equality that she founded and led The Friends of the ABC, the first social justice club to ever form at the school. Grantaire found it more than a little ironic. He also thought it wouldn’t amount to anything.

But more than that, he was intrigued. The first thing he ever heard out of Enjolras’s mouth was a heated comparison of Frankenstein’s monster to the working class in a Marxist diatribe against their English teacher (at least, it sounded Marxist; Grantaire never really understood Marxism), and the second thing he ever heard from her was a a defiant sigh after said English teacher handed her a detention slip.

Then Grantaire blurted out, apropos of nothing and with no true belief in his own words, “wait, wasn’t Frankenstein’s monster the bad guy? So actually, it’s all the working class’s fault.” This in turn prompted a sharp retort from Enjolras, sparking the first of many trollings that would inevitably coax out every ray of Enjolras’s flustered brilliance.

Grantaire got sent to detention that day, too. And of course, they argued until the detention monitor forced them into separate rooms.

It wasn’t long before the rumors started. He was a boy, she was a girl, and they fought all of the time, which is supposedly a secret code teenagers develop when they don’t want to outwardly admit they’re in love. It was stupid. It was childish.

And in Grantaire’s case, it was kind of true. Though maybe “love” wasn’t the right word. It was more of a fascination, maybe even an obsession. He had no desire to sully this blonde goddess with his ugly primal instincts, and whenever he felt the urge to put his lips upon hers (something he would never have dared to try), it was merely because he wanted to feel how all of those lofty speeches vibrated through her head before emerging fully-formed and armored into the world, or to know the kind of wound her lion-like bite would make against his degenerate flesh.

Every day spent around Enjolras went at a mile a minute, and the only way he could keep up was with devil’s-advocate commentary and cheeky grins. It was all he knew how to do, and he did it well. He couldn’t pin down exactly what he wanted from her, but he knew he wanted to be in her presence. And sometimes, when Enjolras smiled victoriously at the end of one of their notorious debates, or when she paused and slowly said Grantaire’s name in greeting on her way to class, he could imagine that maybe she got something out of their little games, too.

He wanted her to guide him to his fate, to lead him through the dingy city streets without ever deigning to look back or, gods forbid, bless him with a touch of her firm but fine-crafted hand. He never tried to touch her. She was Midas, and one touch would turn him into a golden statue for all of eternity. And if that happened, he wouldn’t be able to follow her anymore.

That said, Grantaire had his unfortunate, human desires, and she had no such thing. Enjolras floated above the reach of all animals, and he craved touch. So he looked elsewhere. He had known he was bisexual since he first started puberty, but it was always easier to get the boys. The girls at school actually had some standards; the guys, on the other hand, just cared that Grantaire knew how to suppress his gag reflex.

By senior year, Grantaire had earned his reputation as the biggest slut in school. They all assumed he was gay, which at the very least put the rumors about him and Enjolras to rest. Yet whenever Grantaire knelt in a bathroom stall, or behind the little-used staircase at the far end of the hallway, or in Courfeyrac’s backyard during a massive sleepover party, he somehow found these desires intermingled with his desire to be seen by Enjolras. Not seen on his knees, of course -- that would have killed him on the spot -- but seen in some exposed, vulnerable way.

Grantaire became disgusted with himself. He felt like just by existing in Enjolras’s presence and throwing his words at her, he somehow dirtied her by association. But those concerns would temporarily fade from his mind whenever he was in the full swing of a debate with her; she never treated him any differently based on what the other kids thought. Perhaps her opinion of him had been so low to begin with that it simply couldn’t drop anymore, but she was consistent. Steady. An ever-present beacon of undiscriminating light that even Grantaire could bask in.

He was, perhaps, a  _ little _ co-dependent.

He could keep it to himself, though. If he sometimes dreamed about seeing her fly out of a window and chasing after her, that was his business. And if, in those dreams, Grantaire instead fell to his death for his lack of wings, then he would save that fun fact for his future therapist.

Those dreams still felt so close. He’s always been good at visualizing her as she walks away. She’s always striding toward some greater light, one that sets her fair hair ablaze. She’s getting in her dad’s BMW on the way home from a party. She’s leaving the classroom after the bell rings, the other two-thirds of her trusty Triumvirate at her side. She’s storming out of The Friends’ clubroom for the very last time because she can’t stand to look at Grantaire right now and he doesn’t know it’s going to be the last time he’s truly seen. She’s running away from him down an unlit street, and he catches the first glimpse of the dawn before his world goes black.

Wait. What?

* * *

Grantaire’s eyes snapped open. He knew without looking at them that they were red; they stung against the gentle sunlight that filtered in through the translucent curtain. The curtain shimmered baby blue, and Grantaire could imagine for a moment that he was down by the river, where the light rippled off of the little dips in the water and the trees shielded him from the worst of the summer’s hard glare.

But it was fall, and Grantaire had no time to bask under the trees. The neat row of succulents on the windowsill told him exactly where he was. His suspicion was confirmed by a lilting voice in the corner of his earshot.

“Bon matin.”

Jean Prouvaire had always been a spirit, some lofty thing clad in pastel gossamer and black hair dye. He used to go by Jehan, back when he had an obsession with old French poetry. His parents had immigrated in the early 90s, which put Jean closer to his heritage than most of The Friends, and he romanticized every part of history in every part of the world beyond the tired town that drained all of its inhabitants. Jean had always been a quiet soul, lonely but never alone. He and Grantaire had been lonely together in middle school, and in high school, The Friends brought the aspiring poet out of his shell.

Now, that shell had closed around him once more. He sat at the edge of the guest bed where Grantaire lay, snap-on curlers covering his long auburn hair like chiton. He didn’t look at Grantaire; instead, his gaze lay upon the window curtain that had previously captured Grantaire’s attention. He must have heard the rustling of the sheets as his hungover friend awoke.

“Jean?” Grantaire’s voice was creaky from sleep. He sat up with a groan. “How did…”

Jean rolled a water bottle in Grantaire’s direction across the pastel comforter, still keeping his eyes elsewhere. “Parnasse.”

Grantaire sipped and nearly choked. “What?”

“Montparnasse,” Jean reiterated. His voice was calm, but the obvious shaking of his bony, berobed shoulders betrayed him. “Him and his cronies carried you here. He said I ‘owe him a favor’ now for bringing you here safely.”

Grantaire’s ribs ached with rage. “That bastard. He fucked Feuilly up again.”

“He takes a liking to you,” Jean mused, the bitterness starting to seep from his shoulders to his throat. “He thinks you’re fun to have around. You make for a good clown. That’s the reason you’re not waking up next to some storm drain with blood on your face right now. Or worse.”

“Blood on my…?” Grantaire instinctively felt around his face, and sure enough there was a pad of gauze carefully secured above his brow. He remembered falling when he passed out, but not hitting the ground. Jean’s shaking, it seemed, was not merely out of anger. It was a miracle that Grantaire wasn’t concussed. “Jean. I’m so sorry.”

His knees ached with healing scrapes as he shifted on the bed, coming up behind Jean and hugging him. Ylang-ylang perfume serenaded him in the embrace, one small fragment of the poet’s immaculate grooming. He always styled himself as though he were expecting to go out; it was a shame that only Grantaire ever got to see and smell and feel all of that hard work.

“You smell good,” he mumbled, sticking his nose in the poet’s neck.

Jean shrugged him away. “You smelled like weed and booze when you came in.”

Grantaire guiltily pushed his lip between his teeth. “Yeah, I guess I would’ve.”

“You promised you’d stop using hard drugs.”

“Mary Jane’s not hard,” Grantaire echoed Courfeyrac’s words. “She’s the floating bud upon which sits the Green Fairy, and sometimes they seduce one another on unexpected nights.”

Jean gave him a glare at that. With eyes like his, Jehan reassembled something like a Green Fairy, one whom Grantaire himself had seduced on unexpected nights back in the day. In this moment, Grantaire was just glad to finally make eye contact with him, even if the plain disappointment in his look made Grantaire nearly wish he  _ had _ just woken up on the sidewalk.

He continued. “I get it, and I’m sorry. I shall pardon Mary Jane forevermore from the chains which bound her to me. Could the cherished  _ M’sieur _ Prouvaire, who has saved me from worse chains before, also find it in his heart to grant  _ le pardon _ ?” As he spoke these soft words, he placed his hands upon his friend’s shoulders, driving his thumbs into muscles he knew were always sore after daily bouts of hunching in front of a word document.

Jean, though his gaze remained stern, relaxed into the touch. “What am I going to do with you?”

“The fate of that question lies in your manicured hands.” Now that the adrenaline and other things from before had worn off, Grantaire could play the part of a poet himself, even if his words lacked the same substance. At least he had noticed the delicate gloss and trim over Jean’s thin fingers, which placated him a bit.

Jean delayed his judgement with a question, but the hand he placed atop Grantaire’s spoke forgiveness. “What happened that night?”

It wasn’t an easy question to answer. Most of the night was haphazardly swept away by the little overworked janitor in Grantaire’s head, the arbiter of his alcoholic amnesia who only left scraps of memory in the hard-to-reach places. He tried to trace everything from its beginning: Feuilly was all beat up, Joly refused him, Courfeyrac let them in...it was hard for him to believe that he had seen all of these people in one night; aside from Jean, he was lucky to see any of them more than once every couple of weeks, and it had been years since he could recall interacting with them in such rapid succession.

Combeferre helped Feuilly, Courfeyrac got angry, Grantaire got in an Uber, then…

“I saw Enjolras.”

A familiar sigh escaped Jean. “Of course you did.”

“Really. It was her.” Grantaire squinted his eyes in concentration as he struggled to remember more. “Except she was some guy.”

“Some guy,” Jean echoed slowly. “So you saw some guy and mistook him for Enjolras.”

“No, that’s impossible. It looked just like her, all of that aside. I know it was her.”

“Firstly, that makes no sense. Secondly, you’ve mistaken a golden retriever for Enjolras. It’s  _ very _ possible.”

“That was in the dark, and from very far away,” Grantaire defended. “I saw this person close enough to trace the pattern of their freckles.” He swung to the edge of the bed, bumping his leg against Jean’s. “Look, I can’t explain it either. Maybe her spirit possessed this man’s body, combining it with her own in the fashion of Salmacis, but this was not a mere coincidental resemblance. If this wasn’t Enjolras, it was someone who knew her. Someone who recognized the name. Maybe a bastard brother.”

The curlers bobbed as Jean shook his head. “Grantaire, think for three-point-five seconds.” He left a pause for about that long, just to make a point. “You know that I am all about the supernatural, but what seems more likely? That Enjolras is haunting you through her bastard brother we’ve never heard of until now, or that your brain was showing you all sorts of fun things because you were high out of your mind?”

“I didn’t take any hallucinogens.”

“Any sort of intoxicant is going to make you think illogically. It’s possible, dare I say probable, that you saw some random guy with blonde hair and made a simple mistake. Remember that time we went to the concert bar, two years back?”

Grantaire reluctantly nodded. “I was about three in, plus the pregame, and I wanted you to go up there and sing…”

A smirk played on Jean’s lips. “And why did you want me to go up there and sing so badly, R?”

“...Because I thought you were Florence Welch and I was having a real ‘What Kind of Man’ moment.”

The poet just gave him a nod, and he had to concede the point.

He remembered that particular incident well. It was one of the last times he’d managed to bring Jean to a place like that, full of strangers and loud music. He had stopped wearing neon sweaters and goth jewelry by that point, instead opting only for the plainest possible clothes that would keep eyes off of him in a crowd. It was, perhaps, the last time they’d gone somewhere remotely crowded together without Jean suffering an anxiety attack.

Now the auburn-haired recluse once again adorned himself with all of the gaudy accessories he fancied, but it was in the comfort of his own home, the only place he seemed to feel remotely safe anymore. Even then, the presence of anyone other than Grantaire had begun to make him more and more nervous over the past several months. Grantaire wondered solemnly if, one day, even this house would no longer feel like a safe haven to Jean, and what he would do then.

But right now, with just the two of them, Jean felt at ease and confident in his argument. And he was right. Grantaire defeatedly said as much.

“You can’t go chasing every phantom vision of her,” Jean murmured. “One day you’re going to put yourself in real danger, and I won’t be able to help.”

Grantaire leaned against Jean’s shoulder. The robe made a little static with his curly mess of dark brown hair. “I’ll be more careful.”

“Please.”

“I will, if it pleases you,” said Grantaire. “I could also... _ please _ you.”

Just because Grantaire hadn’t been able to finish in about six years didn’t mean he had stopped doing favors for others. Make-up make-outs and other acts of atonement were the best part of getting himself in trouble with Jean, even if he felt genuinely ashamed of himself for worrying the poet. The part of Grantaire intent on destroying his self-esteem suspected that was the main reason the idle agoraphobe kept him around -- along with his willingness to do the shopping and pick things up from the mailbox -- but the part of Grantaire that was perpetually frustrated didn’t have the attention span for such rumination.

But when he hovered a hand over the opening of Jean’s robe, his friend pushed it away. He rolled his eyes with a smirk. “Save it for my birthday. The gauze on your head is a real mood-killer.”

Grantaire glanced once again at the window, this time trying to gauge the hour. “With a wound like that, I’m shocked I’m awake already. It can’t be past, what, noon? I must’ve been out for five, six hours…”

Jean’s shoulder tensed beneath Grantaire’s head. “Grantaire…”

The tone in his voice put Grantaire on edge. Slowly he lifted his head and wrapped an arm around Jean, hoping the added intimacy would make Jean go easy on him.

But Jean’s next statement came out concerned, not frustrated. “You weren’t asleep for five hours. You were asleep for twenty-nine.”

Shit.

Grantaire sprung up from the bed. “Fucking fuck. I had a shift last night. The manager’s gonna slaughter me.”

He started single-mindedly out of the bedroom and down the hall. Distantly, Jean’s voice followed him. “Grantaire, don’t leave. You got knocked out on drugs, alcohol, and a nasty fall. Who knows what state your head’s at right now? I had Combeferre come here yesterday and he’s just about to be over again--”

“Oh. Send him my regards.” If Jean was willingly inviting other people into his home to check on Grantaire, then that fall must have been really serious. Still, Grantaire determined that a little unchecked brain damage was worth it if it meant he wouldn’t piss off his boss more than he inevitably already had.

Besides, he’d been awake for way too long before he crashed, so his body had probably just decided to catch up on all of its missed sleep -- which should have been concerning in its own right, but at least it (probably) didn’t merit medical oversight.

“Couldn’t you call your boss and tell him what happened?” asked Jean.

“Want to call him for me?” The retort was a little cruel, but it silenced the agoraphobe’s concerns. A little pang of guilt budded in Grantaire’s chest, and his tone softened. “Look, I’ll take it easy. I’ll let you know if anything crops up. Better yet, if there’s a problem, I’ll go to a hospital.”

“Did you find insurance?”

A good point. “...I’ll go to Courf and Ferre’s.”

Jean sighed. “Please be careful.”

“I will.”

“You always say that. Please actually do it this time.”

“Okay, okay.”

“And call me if anything happens.”

“Of course.”

“And come back tomorrow.” This one was almost a question as opposed to a demand. Jean slipped a hand beside Grantaire’s coarse cheek, letting it linger there. “It’s sad to watch you leave me so soon.”

Grantaire took the delicate ends of Jean’s fingers with his own square hand. He pressed a teasing, air-light kiss to the poet’s knuckles. “As you have blessed me with so much of your trade, dear wordsmith, it is only fair that I give you  _ my _ word in turn.”

“You could be a poet yourself, you know.”

“Oh, no. Poets speak from their heart -- they have something meaningful to say about love and life, or about death and despair. I speak from my stomach, to empty it out and make room for more hot wings.”

Jean rolled his eyes. “Get out of here,” he groaned. Then, amending: “Safely.”

Grantaire gladly obliged.

* * *

The motel manager, Mr. Thénardier, was in a jovial mood, already chatting it up with a too-young-looking girl of ill repute in the lobby. His wife was not as forgiving. She had been the one so generous as to permit Grantaire long-term residence in one of the downstairs rooms, so long as he proved himself to be a worthy employee.

He had proven no such thing, and Mrs. Thénardier’s patience wore thinner with each passing day. The bandage on his head didn’t sway her one bit, and that day, Grantaire was put on the midnight shift as punishment for his carelessness.

(“You remind me more of my husband every time I have to deal with you,” she had spat, and Grantaire had never been more insulted.)

The midnight shift, affectionately called “Hell Mode” by Grantaire’s coworker Éponine, was no less busy than any of the others. Not only did plenty of clientele choose to check in or out at night, but it was always the weirdos, assholes, and creeps who came up to the front desk in those unholy hours. The Thénardier Motel was infamous for its poor security and seedy happenings, which naturally drew the dregs of society into its greedy maw.

Thankfully Grantaire was well-rested for once after his apparent twenty-nine hour nap, so he was pretty alert throughout his shift. His head still ached a little, but the tension in his nerves kept him distracted from the pain for the most part. He winced sympathetically at the drunkards and crackheads who stumbled past his window, no doubt to be harassed by the gangsters on the upstairs railing if their unsteady legs managed to carry them that far.

Speak of the devil. In walked a gentleman around Grantaire’s age, with his hair styled stiffly upward and studs clutching the shoulders of his tailored coat. If Grantaire had to describe him in one word, it would be “pretty.” In two words, “pretty insufferable.”

Montparnasse, one of the leaders of the Patron Minette.

Grantaire could vaguely remember having some classes with the young gangster, though by the second year of high school he had dropped out to take on every edgy white boy’s dream job: that of a full-time drug lord and criminal boss. Montparnasse was different from the average edgy white boy in the sense that he’d not only fulfilled this dream, but also proven to be good at it. Too good for Grantaire’s comfort. He swallowed a grimace at the sight of Montparnasse’s shiny teeth, the canines sharpened to fine needlepoints.

Despite their numbered encounters before Grantaire took up his job at the motel, Montparnasse waved at him like they were close childhood friends. Grantaire gave him a two-finger salute and then pretended to be busy with the guest roster.

Normally Montparnasse left Grantaire well alone and strutted directly into Mr. Thénardier’s office, but this was an unlucky night. The gang boss approached the front desk with a dainty crossdresser under his arm.

“R,” Montparnasse purred. “I hope you’re doing well. You took a bad hit from the sidewalk last night.”

Grantaire continued to look downward. “Oh, I’m just fine. What do you need, Mont?”

“Fauntleroy and I would like to check in. We should already be reserved for room 206.”

“It’s Bouquetière tonight,” corrected Montparnasse’s drag-clad friend, with a little twirl of their lace-front wig.

Grantaire raised an eyebrow. “Doesn’t your operation run, like, a gargantuan underground sex dungeon? Why do you need to pay for a motel room?”

Montparnasse smirked, and the lobby’s dim lamp light glinted off of his fangs. “Oh,  _ I’m _ not paying. We’re meeting some new friends who aren’t into the dungeons as a little pregame. Then Bouquetière and I are going to take Thénardier into the dungeons to finish things off right.” At Grantaire’s deadpan stare, Montparnasse raised a lofty brow. “Do you have a problem with that, dear R?”

Grantaire held up his hands. “As far as I’m concerned, you can knock yourselves out.”

“I imagine you wouldn’t wish to join us, then?”

Grantaire snorted. “I’ll stick to chasing after what I can’t have. It makes less of a mess on the sheets.”

Montparnasse shook his head pityingly. “A shame, that. I’d love to see you try to stumble your way through intercourse. Better yet, there’s a blindfolded man waiting in that room whose cock you could suck; imagine the look on his face when I peel off that blindfold and he gets a glimpse of the ugly mug bringing him to climax.” The words were said in an oddly affectionate way, though that didn’t ease their bite.

“Somehow my lovers got through it just fine, gods bless them,” Grantaire played along, graciously letting only a  _ little _ sarcasm into his tone. He went over to the key box, which thankfully allowed him a reprieve from having to face the overproduced punk drivel that had slithered up to him. “206, you said?”

“Really, Grantaire,” Montparnasse droned, perching an elbow on the desk. “You should consider joining us one of these evenings.”

“Thanks, but I’m more of a food-and-booze guy than a lover. The smell of buffalo sauce would curse that room for weeks after I’m through.”

That got a hardy laugh out of Montparnasse, as expected. It helped that Grantaire was on the heavier side of average, and people like Montparnasse were easy to entertain with Grantaire’s self-deprecating sense of humor. Grantaire didn’t care all that much -- he liked food, and that was all there was to it, no weight hang-ups or otherwise -- but if it pleased the gangster enough for Grantaire to keep his head another day, then he was going to damn well use it to his advantage.

“I’m being serious.” Montparnasse’s lips curled into a dangerous smile. “I noticed you took a liking to one of my boys the other night.”

Grantaire slowly turned around, plopping the key onto the desk. “What are you on about?”

“The little blond, of course.”

When that bit of information finally processed, Grantaire audibly groaned. Of course. That explained why the young man had been sitting on a dark bench in the middle of Patron Minette territory. Grantaire had mistaken one of Montparnasse’s favored male prostitutes with the former obsession who had haunted him for years. Jean was right. Great.

The punk chuckled a little. It was like nails on a chalkboard. “There’s no need to be shy, R. After all, you weren’t shy with him that night. I’d like to sincerely apologize for how he ran away from you; he’s not a street bitch, so he gets a little antsy when strange men approach him without one of his daddies around.”

“That’s okay. Sorry for, uh, stepping on your territory? I really wasn’t trying to--”

“R, relax. See, I’ve got a bit of news for you: that sweet blond boy is currently tied up in the dungeon. If you go see him, he certainly won’t run away from you this time.”

That didn’t sound good at all. “Look, you’re mistaken--”

“Look at me,” Montparnasse half-whispered. The motel employee reluctantly obeyed, his bored eyes hardly registering the gangster’s cat-eye contacts as anything unusual. “I’ve got one more little enticement for you, alright?”

“What is it?”

“You’re bisexual. I know you don’t talk about women much -- until you’re four or so in -- but you clearly like both the one and the other. What do you think of trannies?”

Oof. The biting casualness of that word drew blood from Grantaire’s lip. He took a careful step back. “I think they’re fine, upstanding members of society, just like the rest of us.”

“Oh, how noble.” Montparnasse rolled his eyes. “I mean sexually.”

“Uh…yeah, they’re fine. You’re right that I like women; it doesn’t really matter what they’ve got going on. If you’re talking about your friend, though, I’m not particularly interested…”

A sigh left Montparnasse’s lips like vapor, condensing and condescending in Grantaire’s ears. “Firstly, Fauntleroy--”

“Bouquetière,” corrected his friend in the wig.

“Bouquetière is a crossdresser; it’s not the same thing. Secondly, you’re thinking in the wrong direction. Open your mind to other possibilities.”

“The other…?”

“Bonus-hole boys. Men with cunts.”

The flippancy of these words would have been too much to idly let slide, if it wasn’t an incredibly powerful crime boss saying them. Grantaire ultimately shrugged. “Well, yeah. I like men too, and like I said, the parts don’t really concern me.”

“But have you ever tried one?”

“No, I’ve never--”

“You could, tonight. If you come with us,” said Montparnasse. “That little blond you ran so fondly after is one of them.”

“Okay, but why would that make me more likely to…” Grantaire trailed off.

Wait.

The blond on the bench looked just like Enjolras. But he couldn’t have been Enjolras, because he was a man, and one of the Patron Minette’s prostitutes at that -- a life that he couldn’t possibly conceive of Enjolras taking up. That point still stood, but if he was a man who had been designated female at birth, and if he had perhaps even lived that way for a significant portion of his life…

The very thought was nausea-inducing. Now, to be fair, the resemblance was undeniable. If he knew that Enjolras had simply transitioned from female to male, well -- it would be a change, but he could make sense of that. But prostitution? Under the watchful eye of the local gang, no less? Impossible. Unfathomable. Insulting to everything that she was and everything that she believed in. The reasonable thing would be to think that this was all a coincidence, that any trance of Enjolras he had seen in that young man’s pale face was just a trick of the darkness.

And yet.

Montparnasse slid the keys into his pocket and slunk away from the front desk. “Consider it,” he called, leading Bouquetière to the door, “while my friend and I take care of the gentlemen in 206. I’ll be back here to pick up Thénardier.”

The little bell that rang as the two walked out jarred Grantaire back to his senses. No, there was no way. Absolutely not. Enjolras would have died sooner than she would have gotten trapped in a life of sexual servitude. Grantaire’s brain was simply incapable of envisioning men with their hands on her -- or him, or whatever the case may be -- tearing into marble flesh, exposing the true make of her body as something vulnerable, something pliable, something tragically human. Taking more and more until nothing was left of her but her braces.

But then, if he was so sure that it was all a coincidence, maybe he ought to go with Montparnasse after all. At the very least he could gaze upon the unfortunate young man while sober and have solid evidence that it was, in fact, not Enjolras. He obviously wouldn’t have sex with the sorry soul, and he’d feel absolutely terrible at his helplessness to rescue him. But -- and Grantaire was disgusted with himself for this -- the kinds of horrors he would bear witness to in that accursed dungeon were no match for his need to know, with absolute clarity, that it wasn’t Enjolras suffering down there.

Grantaire checked the time on his phone. His shift would be over by the time Montparnasse came back. He had time to go take a look.


	3. Way Down We Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire doesn't want to find Enjolras in the depths of the Patron Minette's sex dungeon. But that doesn't mean he won't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: This chapter has a lot of vaguely-described content that is sexual in nature. Part of it takes place in a BDSM dungeon, so, yeah. Some of the vaguely-described acts are implied to be non-consensual. A really messed-up discussion about consent is had. Nothing in this chapter is intended to titillate, and it will be the most heavily sexual chapter in this fic (at least for a long time, until a potential [consensual] scene way down the road).
> 
> I didn't mean for this chapter to be as long as it is but here we go, getting into the real plot of the thing.
> 
> The song for this chapter is "Way Down We Go" by KALEO.

“So glad t’ave you join us, Grantaire. Was worried you’d gott’n’a be a stick in the mud like my wife.”

Mr. Thénardier was already sloshed by the time Montparnasse and Bouquetière had finished their “pregame” upstairs. The gangsters showed no sign of the same intoxication, though the little crossdresser’s giant pupils and the sudden bounce in his step hinted at ecstasy. Grantaire was hopeful that everyone else would be out-of-it enough by the end of the night not to notice that Grantaire was stone-cold sober, but the way Montparnasse’s ethereal eyes seemed to linger on him every time he looked over made this seem unlikely.

They walked down the street in a little diamond, with Bouquetière in the front and Grantaire in the back. Mr. Thénardier insisted on swinging his head around to look at Grantaire every time he addressed him. The old man wobbled comically into Montparnasse each time, and eventually the gang boss forcibly shoved his face back in place to keep him focused on where he was going.

Grantaire managed something akin to a flat chuckle. “Don’t worry T, I’ve managed to hide some of my secrets from her. As have you, clearly.”

Another turn. Another shove. “Ah, she knows ‘m doin’ this.”

“That’s bold of you,” mused Montparnasse.

“Nah. Doesn’t matter, she does the same to me.”

“But she doesn’t have to pay for it. That’s where she has you beat. It’s pathetic, really.”

“Oh, like you don’t e’er use the professionals.”

“I don’t just use them; I  _ own _ them,” Montparnasse corrected. “And only the boys. The girls are all for you tonight, buddy.”

“An’ what about you, Grantaire?” asked Thénardier. “You a pervert, or a homosexual pervert?”

Montparnasse smirked. “Now, here’s the interesting part about that. Grantaire’s little date was born a woman but insisted on becoming a man. I thought it was a real shame he was delivered to me that way, but he’s proven to be quite profitable for his niche over the years.”

Thénardier snorted so hard he had to wipe his nose on his sleeve afterward. “Oh, Grantaire, say it ain’t so!”

“I’m going to take a look at him,” Grantaire said carefully. He mock-cutely cupped his hand around his chin, which was sure to get a laugh in contrast with his stubble-ridden, vaguely asymmetrical face. “We’ll see if he’s pretty enough to be worthy of my time.”

“Tha’s wretched stuff, Grantaire. The only way to get fun from a bitch like that is to fight the man out’ve her.”

Grantaire’s whole body tensed. He forced himself to slowly release a silent breath that would have otherwise burst out of him as a growl. This was going to be a long night.

The spiked ends of Bouquetière’s puffy white dress ruffled up a little too high as he sauntered over to the front door of their destination. He opened it with a flourish, and the other three stepped inside.

The fact that the Patron Minette’s bar was within walking distance of the motel explained a lot, given the kind of clientele that inhabited both. To call it “the Patron Minette’s bar” was not legally accurate -- it was formally owned by someone who at least held up the pretense of being a civilian -- but given the depths of what was inside, it was clear who really ran the place.

The front room of the bar was the only one that could really be called a “bar” to begin with. Everyone had to act at least somewhat like a member of society here; the two gangsters in Grantaire’s company were probably the most outlandishly dressed of the whole lot. A thumping dance rhythm played from somewhere untraceable, muffled by heavy brick walls.

All of the patrons’ eyes briefly turned to them. Chances were most of the people here had no idea what went on further in the building, and while the customers of a bar in this area were bound to include some unsavory types, the sight of one of the local crime lords drew more than a few gasps.

The floorboards creaked as Montparnasse made a beeline for the bar. His gaze didn’t move an inch from its target, the bartender, who acknowledged him with a small, nervous nod.

“Four cups of your best red -- one for me, and one for each of my dear friends. On my tab.”

The thought of rolling his eyes flooded Grantaire’s head incessantly, but he fought against it. Still, it was unbearable, and he was glad that no one was looking at him to see it. Of course Montparnasse of all people would order fancy, expensive red wine in little stem glasses at a shoddy bar to get ready for a night of debauchery. Couldn’t he have gone with something harder?

Then again, despite the initial distaste, maybe this was actually a good thing; if it came down to it and Grantaire had to finish his drink to avoid suspicion, it wouldn’t hit as much as hard liquor.

But it wasn’t as simple as wine. Montparnasse always had something up his sleeve, often literally.

Once they had each gotten their cups, Montparnasse held his up: “To good friends, good parties, and lovely, lovely whores.” Clink. Sip. Grantaire tilted his head back, but not a single drop touched his tongue.

“Just let me know if you gentlemen want any more. I’ll send someone to bring whatever you like,” Montparnasse crooned, making deliberate eye contact with Grantaire. He didn’t outright say that he had already caught Grantaire’s bluff, but apprehension sloshed around in the normally booze-swilling cynic’s empty stomach.

They spent a little time in the bar itself, chatting around a stained oak table that smelled like it had been made from the recycled wood of a beer casket. Maybe it had been. Bouquetière regaled everyone with the story of how he’d gotten his white dress, apparently an expert shoplifting move that had to be shared with the world. It was engaging at first, but poor Bouquetière couldn’t hold a single train of thought for long enough to flesh out the details. When the topic somehow got to Bouquetière’s strained relationship with his father, Montparnasse mercifully decided it was time to move on.

He drifted to the back of the bar, magnetically pulling his little entourage of drag and drunkards along with him. His leather-gloved hand met the handle of a door over which beckoned a neon sign:  _ Dance Floor _ .

The dance floor, like the main bar, was open to the general public and easy enough to find. A few people had slunk in and out since the mismatched quartet had made their entrance. Once the door was open, the source of the bar’s distant music became clear; the place had a live DJ. The reflective floor of the official dancing zone was marked by a close circle of party people, along with some outside stragglers.

Bouquetière immediately pulled Mr. Thénardier onto the floor. The motel manager shoved his half-empty glass into Grantaire’s free hand before he was whisked away, stumbling and grinding against any girl or femme-looking creature unfortunate enough to exist in his line of sight. Montparnasse lurked against the wall coolly. Grantaire leaned next to him, distinctly less cool.

“You’re not going to dance?” asked Grantaire.

“Not tonight; I already danced to this song two days ago. What about you, though? It’s not every night you get the chance to go out, I’m sure.”

“Oh, no. I’m reserving my energy,” Grantaire reasoned. “That blond boy of yours is about to have a wild night, should he fit my standards. I only hope he can keep up with me.”

“We’ve had him chained up tonight just for this sort of occasion, dear R. He hasn’t been able to move an inch in the past twelve hours or so; I’m sure he’ll be eager to get moving.”

That was concerning, to say the least. Keeping a man bound up to the point of immobility for half a day was sickening, and not one minute passed without Grantaire ruefully wondering what he was getting himself into. Also, what did Montparnasse mean by  _ this sort of occasion _ ? Had Montparnasse already suspected that Grantaire would come with him tonight? If not, would he have found someone else -- someone who would have violated that bound prostitute without a second thought?

Montparnasse side-eyed Grantaire’s full glass. As soon as his attention turned elsewhere, Grantaire deftly poured about a third of it into Mr. Thénardier’s cup.

Inevitably, the motel manager got smacked off the floor by a woman who hadn’t been docile toward his harassment, and Montparnasse had to intervene. He apologized to the woman, handed her something concealed, and half-led-half-dragged Mr. Thénardier to the next door.

“Behave yourself,” he hissed. He gestured for Grantaire to follow them.

“Where’d your friend go?” asked Grantaire. With his petite form and the molly in his system, he’d mostly likely made his way to the middle of the crowd and gotten blissfully lost. Montparnasse noted as much without missing a step in his long stride.

“Both of you,” Montparnasse began, though his ire was clearly targeted at Mr. Thénardier, “are going to be on your best behavior for this next room. We have clientele who come here with very vulnerable desires, and losing so much as one of our regulars is a loss of profits we have to find some way to make up. Understood?”

Grantaire nodded. His boss hardly seemed to register the words, so he shoved the old man’s cup back over to him. That should keep at least one of his wandering hands busy.

There was a little turn that led to a discreet soundproof door, outside of which stood a pair of goons. Montparnasse got through without question, pulling Mr. Thénardier’s weight through the secretive entrance, but Grantaire was stopped by a meaty palm on his chest.

“What’s your name?” asked one of the goons.

“Boys, let him through,” Montparnasse called back impatiently. “He’s a friend of mine.” He gave said friend a little wink.

The brute respectfully stood aside, and Grantaire took his first step into the next circle of Hell.

More accurately, it was a BDSM dungeon. Grantaire had never thought much about his own opinions on BDSM and, figuring that a gang’s shady dungeon was a bad reflection of the lifestyle, withheld his judgement for another day.

That didn’t soften the blow of suddenly being met with full-face leather masks, leashes, and enough bare skin to make a nude portrait artist blush. The people were mostly just talking, but their little glances over at the trio put Grantaire on edge. He didn’t think his sweaty hands could clench any tighter.

One group was gathered in a semi-circle, and through the silhouettes he could see a whip in the air. A crack rang through the room as it landed on red flesh, followed by a whimper. Grantaire winced sympathetically.

“It’s all consensual here,” Montparnasse half-whispered, seeing Grantaire’s discontent. “Heathens, but not monsters. Those come later.”

“Very assuring,” Grantaire muttered back.

Mr. Thénardier busted through the middle of the semi-circle to gawk, and Montparnasse stood off to the side to watch the action for himself. When neither of them were looking at him, Grantaire made a game of pouring his wine little by little into Mr. Thénardier’s glass. The older drunkard, for his part, either didn’t notice or didn’t care to question the gift.

Grantaire himself wanted nothing to do with the scene. Every loud smack of the whip seemed to strike him right in his head wound, and though he understood the act was consensual, the submissive’s battered back horrified him. He tried to chat it up with a gimp sitting by a bowl of individually-wrapped crackers, who didn’t have much to say but was a very good listener.

“...And it’s not like one day you’re any old civilian doing his daily duties and the next you’re in a gang-sanctioned sex dungeon, right? I’m no saint. You’d be much more likely to catch me wearing a nun’s outfit and rosary anal beads in this very room than wearing the mark of a true priest. Rosary anal beads -- are those a thing? Actually, don’t tell me. Better to maintain some illusion of innocence, even here. I can pretend I’m an average John Doe and not some discount alcoholic who’s always one step in any direction from becoming Jesse Pinkman.

“Except I never got pulled into the life of my former teacher like Jesse. Could you imagine that? Has anyone ever actually liked one of their high school teachers enough to put up with them after graduation? Well, I guess it happens. I  _ know _ it happens -- you don’t have to tell me twice, I’ve seen it myself. Oh, yes, I have. That’s not a story for tonight, though. I wonder if she became a drug dealer. She’d have been good at it. She could’ve talked a whole city into legalizing every hard drug and gotten everyone hooked on her supply within the month. She could’ve convinced them that drugs were a new religion and that she was their god. Except she would never have done that. What she preached was much harder to sell.

“Where was I? Right. I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t in Parnasse’s good graces. Here as in alive, not here as in here. Here too, but that’s neither here nor there. The fact that I’m here at all is a testament to the fact that I’m alive, breathing the same air as you. Assuming you can breathe in that mask. Wait, of course you can, that’s stupid to even--”

Grantaire was cut off by a sudden tug of his arm by the gang boss in his company, who had walked away from the whipping display. Attached to his other arm was Thénardier, who at some point had sucked down his whole glass and carelessly left it in the gloved hands of some confused dominatrix.

“Enough of this,” said Montparnasse. “Do you boys want to get to the main event, or what?”

Grantaire bid farewell to the gimp with a sweeping gesture and was given a stiff little nod in return. He might have liked to see that man again, under different circumstances.

The three bounded across the large room. More open scenes surrounded them on the way, but thankfully Montparnasse didn’t leave time for Grantaire’s eyes to fully process them. The moans, grunt, cries, and slaps told enough already.

They met yet another door at the back of the room. This one had two more guards stationed in front of it, and a numeric pad rested above the knob. Just how many back doors did they have to go through? It was starting to feel like a trap, and Grantaire knew damn well that at this point, he was essentially at Montparnasse’s mercy. If his mood turned sour, Grantaire would be in real danger. Maybe he should go. He could make up an excuse; he was good at that. He could go back to the motel, hop in bed, and know that his meager existence was safe for another day.

He could also work himself up into a frenzy every night for the rest of his life over the near-zero chance that it was really Enjolras in the unknown depths of a massive house of ill-repute, resigned to a life of inescapable sexual servitude that they had already been subjected to for who knows how long, and he’d never truly know.

He had to keep going.

Montparnasse put in the code and opened the door, and the next thing Grantaire saw was a flight of stairs that only led down. Grantaire imagined it spiraling on for miles, branching out into a maze along the way, with all of the wrong paths sinking into the Earth’s molten core. Grantaire should have brought breadcrumbs, or a spool of yarn -- or more realistically just, like, a pocket knife.

He was starting to itch, and a part of his regretted giving his drink to Mr. Thénardier. One glass would at least grease up his nerves.

They plunged into the depths. Surprisingly, it didn’t twist into the labyrinth of Minos, but merely took them down a single floor. And so they entered the brothel.

Montparnasse called it a “Lovely Lady Spa” on the way down, but the double-meaning was stripped bare by the positions and adornments of the women strewn about on a circle of plush red loveseats. It lacked the pedestrian facade of the bar, the glitz of the clubroom, and the incessant gawking of the BDSM club. Instead, it was almost...comfortable. Liberated, in its bent sort of way, if someone took it at face-value. Some of the prostitutes were curled up against one another, not thinking to cover parts of themselves that their scant outfits wouldn’t have concealed anyway, trying to get some rest in one anothers’ arms. Others made conversation in hushed tones, pressing themselves against one another inconspicuously.

Yet it was all clearly an act. If Montparnasse’s tastes were any indication, there were lovely gents who worked here as well, but not a single one was in sight, indicating that they had been purposefully moved elsewhere. Underneath the ladies’ almost idyllic cuddling, there were all the telltale angles and positionings of women taught to display themselves for the maximum benefit of their voyeurs. Grantaire imagined that this scene had been crafted specifically for Mr. Thénardier’s arrival.

It was no wonder, then, when Mr. Thénardier launched himself among these unfortunate women, forcing two of them apart so he could wedge himself in between them. What was more surprising was that Mr. Thénardier didn’t say a word when he did so. His mouth moved, but only a groan bellowed from him. Although he settled very heavily into his seat, his head spun as if he couldn’t keep his balance. He was much worse off than where a couple more glasses of wine would have put him.

Grantaire swallowed as his suspicion was confirmed: Montparnasse had put something in his drink. Thank the gods that his last two brain cells had the cleverness to stay sober tonight, even if he still ached for a little liquid courage.

“Have fun with your girls, Thénardier,” said Montparnasse. “Grantaire and I still have a little ways to go.”

What? There was more? At this rate they’d crawl down into Hell and it would still be a floor above their destination. Grantaire chewed on his lip, revitalizing old wounds in the cracked flesh.

Montparnasse must have noticed Grantaire’s apprehension, because he patted his shoulder. It was a rough and scolding touch rather than a comforting one, despite the grin plastered on Montparnasse’s face. “Just one more hallway. Don’t call it quits now, Grantaire; you’re about to get to the good part.”

They crossed to the opening of a hallway. Behind them, Mr. Thénardier began to laugh. It was violent and strained, more like a choke. Just before they turned away, he made eye contact with them and managed to spit out a few slurred words: “‘Ave fun. Degenerates.” Then he closed his eyes and promptly fell asleep.

They turned to face the hall, which seemed endless. Every twelve feet or so were punctuated by either a soundproof door or a little alcove leading to an open room. The hallway would turn every few rooms, forming a snake-like path with no end in sight. Ugly human sounds wafted through the thick, warm air and crawled into Grantaire’s ears as Montparnasse led the way.

Each uniform padded door was fitted with a keycard swiper. Even with heavy soundproofing, the occasional vestiges of some scream or shouted command permeated them. Yet Grantaire was thankful for the doors, as they shielded him from what he could only assume was the worst of it.

The alcoves were harder to pass by, as each presented a glimpse into the scene within. There was no muffling of sound for these wretched acts. Grantaire did his best to keep his gaze focused straight ahead. Sometimes a surprising sound would catch his attention, but he instantly regretted laying eyes on its source. Bare flesh bruised, cut, scarred. Naked humans degraded like something lower than animals and forced into painful positions. The mere stench of some of the scenes was enough to keep Grantaire’s eyes on his shoes as he passed them by.

“Is this consensual?” Grantaire asked quietly, already dreading the answer.

“Grantaire, buddy,” Montparnasse sighed. “This is the floor where the importance of consent becomes a philosophical question. You like those, right?”

Grantaire’s voice caught in his throat, rough and unyielding. “Somehow I don’t think I’d be a fan of this one.”

“Consent is a human construct,” Montparnasse continued, and now Grantaire was swallowing panic. “Do you think animals give a shit if their partner’s in the mood? Do you think they imprison one another because someone’s partner didn’t give an enthusiastic ‘yes’? Not in the natural world. Now, don’t get me wrong, I do not say this to disparage the institutions that are in place to prevent our animal instincts from causing full chaos, although I do disparage institutions for many other reasons. Consensual sex is the ideal. But we are all animals, dear Grantaire. And we all want the chance to roam free in nature. Our dungeon provides that chance.”

Grantaire’s face paled. His cheeks felt numb and his chest hollow. He stopped in his tracks.

Montparnasse gazed evenly at him, his cat-like eyes darkening. “For the record, most of the people being acted upon in this juncture are my boys and girls. One of whom you are about to meet and, presumably, want to have sex with -- which, by your definition, may not exactly be consensual. Has that revelation made you lose your nerve, Grantaire? Perhaps it was a mistake to bring you here.”

Shit. Fuck. He couldn’t stop now, not when they were so close. He had to act the part. It didn’t matter how disgusting he had to be; he could take a shower about it later. Right now, it was all about getting to his goal. He forced a smirk. “You make a convincing argument, Mont. I, too, have my animal nature to attend to, but I’m ashamed to have it bared before me like that. You son-of-a-devil. Your words are the fruit of knowledge, and now you’ve got me running for the nearest fig leaf.”

“You don’t have to be ashamed. Not here.”

“Then show me this boy of yours,” said Grantaire, “so that I may show both you and him how unashamed I can be.”

This satisfied Montparnasse, who led the rest of the way down to a nearby door. He pulled a thick, metallic card from his coat pocket and swiped it until the light over the reader turned green.

“Now remember, tonight you get him for free,” said Montparnasse. “A little friendly favor, let’s say. But I’m warning you: once you’ve had a go at him, you’ll be a paying regular in no time.”

With a graceful flick of the wrist, he swung the door open.

The room was dim, as the void-black of the soundproof foam on the walls sucked up every ray the overhead light had to offer. There was a shelf in the very back with a myriad of strange tools, the possible sexual purposes of which were far beyond Grantaire’s comprehension. In the center stood a Saint Andrew’s cross, tilted at a certain angle that was probably meant to give clientele easier access, and the man bound to it…

Oh, gods.

The man bound to it was Enjolras. There were no more braces, but metal still gleamed in his mouth; a ring gag stretched his sharp jaw to a disconcerting degree, matched by the harness that rubbed his slender chest and hips raw. His breasts were fully exposed, and from the bare meeting of his red thighs came pale liquid streaks. He was tired, malnourished, and bruised in more than a few places. Combined with the new masculinity of his form, he was nearly unrecognizable.

But Grantaire recognized him. He might be the only one who  _ could _ recognize him like this. His blonde hair, though significantly shorter, curled in all of the same places. The faded freckles across his cheeks formed the same constellation. And his eyes -- the one part of his body that Enjolras could move -- glared defiantly off to the side, staunchly refusing eye contact with whomever might enter the room.

It was Enjolras, borne upon a cross. The defiled martyr, but a martyr of what cause?

Grantaire couldn’t breath except to let out a pained gasp. He had tried to deny every possibility of this on the way down, but here he was forced to confront the truth. There was simply no other option.

“Enj…”

This little utterance apparently shocked Enjolras, as the blond immediately cast his eyes upon Grantaire. They widened with recognition, seemed to grow wet for a moment, then went unfocused. His whole body, tense against countless chains and ropes, went slack. Enjolras was vacant, as though his godly spirit had abandoned its abused vessel. It was unlike anything Grantaire had ever seen.

Montparnasse also caught onto the breathed word, and he gave Grantaire a questioning look. Grantaire wanted nothing more than to sink into the ground, to maybe get stuck in the labyrinth of Minos or pulled into the Earth’s destructive core after all. He wanted to wring Montparnasse’s choker-clad neck. He wanted to carry Enjolras out, cross and all if he had to, and run however far it took to get to safety. He wanted to fall to his knees and weep. None of these were viable options.

Instead, Grantaire chuckled. He hoped it didn’t sound as pathetic as he felt. He turned to Montparnasse, both to explain himself and to avert his gaze from the sacrilege before them. “Ange, that is. Pardon my French. He just looks like such a little angel, English didn’t suffice.”

Montparnasse’s suspicion was temporarily assuaged. “I take it he’s up to your  _ high standards _ , then.”

“Perfectly so. He must have been sculpted by Pygmalion.”

“Yeah...whatever that means.”

“You’ve never heard of the story of Pygmalion? It’s a tragic one, but undeniable in its poetic beauty. Pygmalion was a sculptor, and he fell so deeply in love with one of his creations that she came to life. Imagine such dedication put into a creature -- to not be born of messy flesh and blood, screaming as one is expelled from the waters of the womb, but instead animated cleanly through an artistic touch. Every detail is no longer left to genetics and chance, but is hand-picked for its ideality...”

Grantaire rotely went through his knowledge of the metaphors surrounding Pygmalion. Thankfully it was so ingrained that he hardly had to think about it, so he could use it to buy time while he figured out what to do. God, he was somehow worse at thinking clearly under stress when he was sober than when he wasn’t. He had to get his thoughts in order.

The first thing was clear: he was not going to touch Enjolras if he could help it, and he definitely was not going to violate a person’s consent, even if it meant blowing the act.

Could he get Enjolras out of here? He had to try. He considered for a moment if he could back out of this situation and wait until he saw Enjolras out and about on the street again, but that thought didn’t last long. There was no guarantee that he would see Enjolras again, and the fact that Enjolras had apparently already been in town for an unspecified amount of time without Grantaire running into him until two days ago didn’t help those odds. Besides, it ultimately didn’t matter if he saw Enjolras up there or down here; he’d still have the Patron Minette on his ass if he didn’t negotiate first.

He also couldn’t stand the thought of leaving Enjolras here for a second longer than necessary, to doubtlessly be used and abused like he already had tonight. He had to do this now. He had to come up with an excuse, and quickly.

Montparnasse, beyond bored with the cynic’s long-winded musing, cut into it. “Yeah, fascinating. Want to give him a try?”

“Hmm…” Grantaire’s eyes scanned Enjolras’s body like he was looking for cracks in a batch of eggs, but his brain tuned out most of what he was seeing. He gestured to the blond’s thighs. “Has he already been used today?”

Montparnasse nodded with a regretful glance at the dripping spot in question. “He doesn’t get as many customers as the others due to his condition, but we have loyals who come in from all around the county. One’s already been here. It wouldn’t surprise me if some of the gang has also had their fun with him tonight; it’s not often they get to see him tied and shut up like this.”

“A shame. I don’t do leftovers,” said Grantaire, “unless they’re the kind that goes in the fridge. I’d like to take him to my place to have him cleaned up.”

“There are showers back in the Lovely Lady Spa. We can get him up there and back here if you’re willing to wait a few.”

Damn it. Grantaire’s teeth ground against his tongue. “Of course.” But just as Montparnasse took out his phone to have someone fetch Enjolras, Grantaire stopped him. “Wait. It’s not that, not really.”

“Oh? What is it, then?”

Grantaire’s face was red-hot. He hoped the involuntary color would add to his facade. With a deep breath disguised as a reluctant sigh, he spoke again. “Mont, I have to be honest with you. There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

Montparnasse found himself oddly intrigued. “Like what?”

“When you invited me to come take a look at this angel, I had secretly hoped that he wouldn’t meet my standards. My wicked plan had been to join you all as an excuse to get free wine and nachos from the bar under your generous tab, then get as sloshed as Mr. Thénardier. It was all a ruse to fill my stomach and have a good laugh at some random whore’s expense.

“But this seraph bound before me...I simply must have him. He stirs passion within and below me. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a means of release, as you know from the many recounts of my unlucky sex life. What I’ve never told you is that it’s not only my homely face that bars me from the wonders of sexual intercourse; it also has to do with my particular tastes. I require certain, erm,  _ tools _ to get the job done. I couldn’t bring them here with me, as they’re too indiscreet.”

Montparnasse’s mouth gaped into an amused little smile, and his brows shot up with disbelief. He huffed out a laugh, and Grantaire knew he was falling for it. “Grantaire, you beast. I can assure you that whatever weird kinks you have, we’ve got the toys for it somewhere around here.”

Here was the crux. No turning back. Grantaire, for his part, brought his voice down to a near-whisper. “Do you have an eighteen-inch squirting dragon dildo, a bed of nails, and authentic 1860s cowboy gear?”

Enjolras’s eyes momentarily flashed with horror, then emptied again. Grantaire felt bad for frightening him with the odd list of implements, but he could explain everything to him later, once he was safe.

Montparnasse burst into laughter. It was shocking that the sheer force of his wheezing breaths didn’t rip a seam on his stupidly tight shirt. Grantaire rolled his eyes and joined in a little, playing the perfect self-deprecator like always.

“I know, I know,” Grantaire continued. “Call me what you like, but as I said, my urges are strong tonight. If I’m ever going to release these frustrations, I’m going to need this boy and those things.”

“I pity you, buddy,” Montparnasse managed between snickers. “Look, I understand where you’re coming from, and I’m feeling generous. Tomorrow’s an off-work day for you, isn’t it? Or today, rather, since it’s well past midnight.”

“Yes, it’s a Sunday.”

“Luckily enough, none of his loyals come in on Sundays, either.” This felt somehow impossible and relieving, both at once: no one dared to worship nor corrupt this tortured god on a holy day. “How about you take the boy back to your place, and you can have him for the next twenty-four hours?”

Grantaire’s eyes went wide. “You can’t mean that.”

“I do. Consider it a friendly gesture from me to you. Besides, I think it would be a hilarious picture: a day-long marathon between the frustrated cowboy and his delicate angel. You’ll be able to put him in his place, I can tell you that.”

“Put him in his place? Is he a feisty one?”

“He’s obedient enough -- he’ll follow instructions, but he’s got an attitude while he does it. Three years and we’re still trying to work that out of him. I hope it’s not too much of a problem. If he’s any trouble while he’s with you, just let us know and we’ll make sure he shows you the respect you deserve.”

Grantaire bit back the turmoil that arose in his gut from the idea of that. As powerless as he felt, he had so much authority over Enjolras right now. He would never do anything to put Enjolras in a worse position, but the mere thought that he could do so much damage to the person he once adored unsettled him.

“Will do,” he finally replied, “but I think I’ll be able to wrangle him in myself. Twenty-four hours, you said?”

“That’s right. Just don’t leave too many visible marks. And nothing long-lasting -- you break it, you buy it.”

Grantaire wasn’t sure what that was supposed to mean, but it didn’t really matter, because he wasn’t going to lay a hand on Enjolras. He nodded.

“I’ll call Babet down to get him ready for you.”

They stepped back into the hallway, though Grantaire was immediately apologetic for leaving Enjolras out of his sight. Babet swooped into the room with some clothes and a medical bag, and while Enjolras was getting prepared, Montparnasse wrapped his arm around Grantaire’s shoulders.

He moved Grantaire a little ways away from the room, out of its earshot. Grantaire’s sense of victory over having fooled the crafty gang boss was short-lived.

“I’m happy for you, Grantaire,” said Montparnasse as they walked. “He’s a good one.”

“Oh, I can tell.”

“I just hope you remember it’s me who did you this little favor. Not many people have this same kind of privilege. A lot of people are dying out there, getting their livelihoods shattered, and you get to spend a day with the prettiest boy in my roster. You’re a very lucky man.”

Grantaire wasn’t sure where he was going with this. “Thanks…”

“I hope you remember all I’ve given you the next time you feel the urge to get wrapped up in my business.”

“Uh...sorry, what are you talking about?”

Montparnasse scoffed. “Don’t play coy. You don’t have anything to hide; I already know what happened with Feuilly.”

“Oh.” Grantaire paled. “Look, I’m sorry about that, I was super drunk and--”

“Hey, no, no,” Montparnasse soothed. “I get it. You see some guy bleeding out on the street -- someone you used to know, no less -- and you don’t want to let him die. It’s sensible. It’s noble. You’re a good person, Grantaire, which is why that instinct came naturally to you. He probably didn’t even tell you he’s back on our bad side, did he?”

Grantaire shook his head and hoped the lie wasn’t obvious.

“Exactly. So don’t beat yourself up about it. Besides,” Montparnasse’s voice dropped further, “if we really wanted him dead, we wouldn’t have left him anywhere you could find him.”

“Yeah, that...makes sense,” Grantaire said carefully.

Montparnasse grinned. It was probably supposed to be assuring. “But for future reference, anything to do with Feuilly is Patron Minette business. And it would be very convenient, for you and I both, if you stayed out of Patron Minette business. Understood?”

“Crystal clear,” Grantaire managed.

“Good.” Montparnasse checked his phone. “Ah, shit...things are gonna take a minute with your angel, I’m afraid. Needs a bigger cleaning than we thought. How about you go home, and we’ll have him sent to you within the hour?”

Grantaire was hesitant, but at this point he felt the best course of action was to just obey Montparnasse. The night he’d gotten help for Feuilly now hung over him like the sword of Damocles, and a single ounce of suspicion might cause it to fall upon his head. He agreed.

“Great. Anything else you need on the way out?”

Grantaire froze for a moment. Then he smirked. “Could I get some nachos from the bar to-go?”

Montparnasse cackled. “This guy! Really, you’re too much. Spare the poor boy from your cheese-breath at the very least, won’t you?”

With that, Montparnasse started to lead the way back out of the dungeon. Grantaire followed, allowing his shoulders a moment of relaxation from their long, creeping tension. He was going to make it out of this place alive. And with Enjolras, no less.

Enjolras, who was afraid of him. Enjolras, who was warped nearly beyond recognition. Enjolras, who was a mystery to him after six long years of unimaginable events.

He would have to think about the implications of that later. For now, he projected a false air of ease that he was determined to maintain until he was truly out of sight. Soon, Enjolras would be delivered to him. Soon, he would have the lost deity of his past in his motel room, and they could talk, and he could think about the next steps. Before tonight, that was more than Grantaire could possibly have hoped for.

Still, the circumstances were dire. And as Grantaire walked into his motel room, cold and numb to the regularly-scheduled harassment of the gangsters upstairs, he could only imagine what version of Enjolras would be brought to him.


End file.
